Lest Darkness Fall and Related Stories

by L. Sprague de Camp;Frederik Pohl;David Drake;S. M. Stirling;Alexei

  Padway decided to knock off on his fifth Sunday in Rome. For almost a month he had been working all day and most of the night, helping Hannibal to run the still, clean it, and unload casks of wine; and seeing restaurateurs who had received inquiries from their customers about this remarkable new drink.

  In an economy of scarcity, he reflected, you didn’t have to turn handsprings finding customers, once your commodity caught on. He was meditating striking Thomasus for a loan to build another still. This time he’d build a set of rolls and roll his own copper sheeting out of round stock, instead of trying to patch together this irregular hand-hammered stuff.

  Just now, though, he was heartily sick of the business. He wanted fun, which to him meant the Ulpian Library. As he looked in the mirror, he thought he hadn’t changed much inside. He disliked barging in on strangers and bargaining as much as ever. But outside none of his former friends would have known him. He had grown a short reddish beard. This was partly because he had never in his other life shaved with a guardless razor, and it gave him the jitters to do so; and partly because he had always secretly coveted a beard, to balance his oversized nose.

  He wore another new tunic, a Byzantine-style thing with ballooning sleeves. The trousers of his tweed suit gave an incongruous effect, but he didn’t fancy the short pants of the country, with winter coming on. He also wore a cloak, which was nothing but a big square blanket with a hole in the middle to put his head through. He had hired an old woman to make him socks and underwear.

  Altogether he was pretty well pleased with himself. He admitted he had been lucky in finding Thomasus; the Syrian had been an enormous help to him.

  He approached the library with much the same visceral tingle that a lover gets from the imminence of a meeting with his beloved. Nor was he disappointed. He felt like shouting when a brief nosing about the shelves showed him Berosus’ Chaldean History, the complete works of Livius, Tacitus’ History of the Conquest of Britain, and Cassiodorus’ recently published Gothic History complete. Here was stuff for which more than one twentieth-century historian or archaeologist would cheerfully commit murder.

  For a few minutes he simply dithered, like the proverbial ass between two haystacks. Then he decided that Cassiodorus would have the most valuable information to impart, as it dealt with an environment in which he himself was living. So he lugged the big volumes out and set to work. It was hard work, too, even for a man who knew Latin. The books were written in a semi-cursive minuscule hand with all the words run together. The incredibly wordy and affected style of the writer didn’t bother him as it would have if he had been reading English; he was after facts.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the librarian, “but is that tall barbarian with the yellow mustache your man?”

  “I suppose so,” said Padway. “What is it?”

  “He’s gone to sleep in the Oriental section, and he’s snoring so that the readers are complaining.”

  “I’ll tend to him,” said Padway.

  He went over and awakened Fritharik. “Can’t you read?” he asked.

  “No,” said Fritharik quite simply. “Why should I? When I had my beautiful estate in Africa, there was no occasion—”

  “Yes, I know all about your beautiful estate, old man. But you’ll have to learn to read, or else do your snoring outside.”

  Fritharik went out somewhat huffily, muttering in his own East-German dialect. Padway’s guess was that he was calling reading a sissy accomplishment.

  When Padway got back to his table, he found an elderly Italian dressed with simple elegance going through his Cassiodorus. The man looked up and said: “I’m sorry; were you reading these?”

  “That’s all right,” said Padway. “I wasn’t reading all of them. If you’re not using the first volume…”

  “Certainly, certainly, my dear young man. I ought to warn you, though, to be careful to put it back in its proper place. Scylla cheated of her prey by Jason has no fury like that of our esteemed librarian when people misplace his books. And what, may I ask, do you think of the work of our illustrious pretorian prefect?”

  “That depends,” said Padway judiciously. “He has a lot of facts you can’t get elsewhere. But I prefer my facts straight.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean with less flowery rhetoric.”

  “Oh, but my dear, dear young man! Here we moderns have at last produced a historian to rank with the great Livius, and you say you don’t like—” He glanced up, lowered his voice, and leaned forward. “Just consider the delicate imagery, the glorious erudition! Such style! Such wit!”

  “That’s just the trouble. You can’t give me Polybius, or even Julius Caesar—”

  “Julius Caesar! Why everybody knows he couldn’t write! They use his Gallic War as an elementary Latin text for foreigners! All very well for the skin-clad barbarian, who through the gloomy fastnesses of the northern forests pursues the sanguinary boar and horrid bear. But for cultivated men like ourselves—I ask you, my dear young man! Oh”—he looked embarrassed—“you will understand that in my remarks on foreigners I meant nothing personal. I perceive that you are an outlander, despite your obvious breeding and erudition. Are you by any chance from the fabled land of Hind, with its pearl-decked maidens and its elephants?”

  “No, farther away than that,” said Padway. He knew he had flushed a literary Roman patrician, of the sort who couldn’t ask you to pass the butter without wrapping the request in three puns, four mythological illusions, and a dissertation on the manufacture of butter in ancient Crete. “A place called America. I doubt whether I should ever return, though.”

  “Ah, how right you are! Why should one live anywhere but in Rome if one can? But perhaps you can tell me of the wonders of far-off China, with its gold-paved streets!”

  “I can tell you a little about it,” said Padway cautiously. “For one thing, the streets aren’t gold-paved. In fact they’re mostly not paved at all.”

  “How disappointing! But I daresay that a truthful traveler returning from heaven would pronounce its wonders grossly overrated. We must get together, my excellent young sir. I am Cornelius Anicius.”

  Evidently, Padway thought, he was expected to know who Cornelius Anicius was. He introduced himself. Ah, he thought, enter romance. A pretty slim dark girl approached, addressed Anicius as “Father,” and said that she had not been able to find the Sabellian edition of Persius Flaccus.

  “Somebody is using it, no doubt,” said Anicius. “Martinus, this is my daughter Dorothea. A veritable pearl from King Khusrau’s headdress of a daughter, though I as her father may be prejudiced.” The girl smiled sweetly at Padway and excused herself.

  Anicius asked: “And now, my dear young man, what is your occupation?”

  Without thinking, Padway said he was in business.

  “Indeed? What sort of business?”

  Padway told him. The patrician froze up as he digested the information. He was still polite and smiling, but with a smile of a different sort.

  “Well, well, that’s interesting. Very interesting. I daresay you’ll make a good financial success of your business.” He spoke the sentence with a slight difficulty, like a Y.M.C.A. secretary talking about the facts of life. “I suppose we aren’t to blame for the callings wherein God stations us. But it’s too bad you haven’t tried the public service. That is the only way to rise above one’s class, and an intelligent young man like you deserves to do so. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll do some reading.”

  Padway had been hoping for an invitation to Anicius’ house. But now that Anicius knew him to be a mere vulgar manufacturer, no invitation would be forthcoming. Padway looked at his watch; it was nearly lunch time. He went out and awoke Fritharik.

  The Vandal yawned. “Find all the books you wanted, Martinus? I was just dreaming of my beautiful estate—”

  “To hell with—” barked Padway, then shut his mouth.

  “What?” said Fritharik. “Can’t I even dream about th
e time I was rich and respected? That’s not very—”

  “Nothing, nothing. I didn’t mean you.”

  “I’m glad of that. My one consolation nowadays is my memories. But what are you so angry at, Martinus? You look as if you could bite nails in two.” When there was no answer, he went on: “It must have been something in those books. I’m glad I never learned to read. You get all worked up over things that happened long ago. I’d rather dream about my beaut—oop! I’m sorry, boss; I won’t mention it again.”

  Padway and Thomasus the Syrian sat, along with several hundred naked Romans, in the steam room of the Baths of Diocletian. The banker looked around and leered: “I hear that in the old days they let the women into these baths, too. Right mixed in with the men. Of course that was in pagan times; there’s nothing like that now.”

  “Christian morality, no doubt,” said Padway dryly.

  “Yes” chuckled Thomasus. “We moderns are such a moral people. You know what the Empress Theodora used to complain about?”

  “Yes,” said Padway, and told Thomasus what the empress used to complain about.

  “Damn it!” cried Thomasus. “Every time I have a dirty story, either you’ve heard it, or you know a better one.”

  Padway didn’t see fit to tell the banker that he had read that bit of dirt in a book that hadn’t yet been written, namely, the Anecdotes by Procopius of Caesarea.

  Thomasus went on: “I’ve got a letter from my cousin Antiochus in Naples. He’s in the shipping business. He has news from Constantinople.” He paused impressively. “War.”

  “Between us and the Empire?”

  “Between the Goths and the Empire, anyway. They’ve been carrying on mysterious dickerings ever since Amalaswentha was killed. Thiudahad has tried to duck responsibility for the murder, but I think our old poet-king has come to the end of his rope.”

  Padway said: “Watch Dalmatia and Sicily. Before the end of the year—” He stopped.

  “Doing a bit of soothsaying?”

  “No, just an opinion.”

  The good eye sparkled at Padway through the steam, very black and very intelligent. “Martinus, just who are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, there’s something about you—I don’t know how to put it—not just your funny way of putting things. You produce the most astonishing bits of knowledge, like a magician pulling rabbits out of his cap. And when I try to pump you about your own country or how you came hither, you change the subject.”

  “Well—” said Padway, wondering just how big a lie to risk. Then he thought of the perfect answer—a truthful one that Thomasus would be sure to misconstrue. “You see, I left my own country in a great hurry.”

  “Oh. For reasons of health, eh? I don’t blame you for being cagy in that case.” Thomasus winked.

  When they were walking up Long Street toward Padway’s house, Thomasus asked how the business was. Padway told him: “Pretty good. The new still will be ready next week. And I sold some copper strip to a merchant leaving for Spain. Right now I’m waiting for the murder.”

  “The murder?”

  “Yes, Fritharik and Hannibal Scipio didn’t get along. Hannibal’s been cockier than ever since he’s had a couple of men under him. He rides Fritharik.”

  “Rides him?”

  “American vernacular, literally translated. Meaning that he subjects him to constant and subtle ridicule and insult. By the way, I’m going to pay off your loan when we get home.”

  “Entirely?”

  “That’s right. The money’s in the strong box waiting for you.”

  “Splendid, my dear Martinus! But won’t you need another?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Padway, who was sure that he would. “I was thinking of expanding my distillery.”

  “That’s a great idea. Of course now that you’re established we’ll put our loans on a business basis—”

  “Meaning?” said Padway.

  “Meaning that the rate of interest will have to be adjusted. The normal rate, you know, is much higher—”

  “Ha, ha,” said Padway. “That’s what I thought you had in mind. But now that you know the business is a sure one, you can afford to give me a lower rate.”

  “Ai, Martinus, that’s absurd! Is that any way to treat me after all I’ve done for you?”

  “You don’t have to lend it if you don’t want to. There are other bankers who’d be glad to learn American arithmetic—”

  “Listen to him, God! It’s robbery! It’s extortion! I’ll never give in! Go to your other bankers, see if I care!”

  Three blocks of argument brought the interest rate down to ten per cent, which Thomasus said was cutting his own heart out and burning it on the altar of friendship.

  When Padway had spoken of an impending murder, he had neither been passing off hindsight as foresight, nor trying to be literally prophetic. He was more astonished than Thomasus, when they entered his big workshop, to find Fritharik and Hannibal glaring like a couple of dogs who dislike each other’s smell. Hannibal’s two assistants were looking on with their backs to the door; thus nobody saw the newcomers.

  Hannibal snarled: “What do you mean, you big cotton-head? You lie around all day, too lazy to turn over, and then you dare criticize me—”

  “All I said,” growled the Vandal in his clumsy, deliberate Latin, “was that the next time I caught you, I’d report it. Well I did, and I’m going to.”

  “I’ll slit your lousy throat if you do!” yelled Hannibal.

  Fritharik cast a short but pungent aspersion on the Sicilian’s sex life. Hannibal whipped out a dagger and lunged at Fritharik. He moved with rattlesnake speed, but he used the instinctive but tactically unsound overhand stab. Fritharik, who was unarmed, caught his wrist with a smack of flesh on flesh, then lost it as Hannibal dug his point into the Vandal’s forearm.

  When Hannibal swung his arm up for another stab, Padway arrived and caught his arm. He hauled the little man away from his opponent, and immediately had to hang on for dear life to keep from being stabbed himself. Hannibal was shrieking in Sicilian patois and foaming a little at the mouth. Padway saw that he wanted to kill him. He jerked his face back as the dirty fingernails of Hannibal’s left hand raked his nose, which was a target hard to miss.

  Then there was a thump, and Hannibal collapsed, dropping his dagger. Padway let him slide to the floor, and saw that Nerva, the older of the two assistants, was holding a stool by one leg. It had all happened so quickly that Fritharik was just bending over to pick up a short piece of board for a weapon, and Thomasus and Carbo, the other workman, were still standing just inside the door.

  Padway said to Nerva: “I think you’re the man for my next foreman. What’s this about, Fritharik?”

  Fritharik didn’t answer, he stalked toward the unconscious Hannibal with plain and fancy murder in his face.

  “That’s enough, Fritharik!” said Padway sharply. “No more rough stuff, or you’re fired, too!” He planted himself in front of the intended victim. “What was he doing?”

  The Vandal came to himself. “He was stealing bits of copper from stock and selling them. I tried to get him to stop without telling you; you know how it is if your fellow employees think you’re spying on them. Please, boss, let me have one whack at him. I may be a poor exile, but no little Greek catamite—”

  Padway refused permission. Thomasus suggested swearing out a complaint and having Hannibal arrested; Padway said no, he didn’t want to get mixed up with the law. He did allow Fritharik to send Hannibal, when the Sicilian came to, out the front door with a mighty kick in the fundament. Exit villain, sneering, thought Padway as he watched the ex-foreman slink off.

  Fritharik said: “I think that was a mistake, Martinus. I could have sunk his body in the Tiber without anybody’s knowing. He’ll make trouble for us.”

  Padway suspected that the last statement was correct. But he merely said: “We’d better bind your arm up. Your whole sleeve is blood-soake
d. Julia, get a strip of linen and boil it. Yes, boil it!”

  CHAPTER IV

  Padway had resolved not to let anything distract him from the task of assuring himself a livelihood. Until that was accomplished, he didn’t intend to stick his neck out by springing gunpowder or the law of gravitation on the unsuspecting Romans.

  But the banker’s war talk reminded him that he was, after all, living in a political and cultural as well as an economic world. He had never, in his other life, paid more attention to current events than he had to. And in post-Imperial Rome, with no newspapers or electrical communication, it was even easier to forget about things outside one’s immediate orbit.

  He was living in the twilight of western classical civilization. The Age of Faith, better known as the Dark Ages, was closing down. Europe would be in darkness, from a scientific and technological aspect, for nearly a thousand years. That aspect was, to Padway’s naturally prejudiced mind, the most, if not the only, important aspect of a civilization. Of course, the people among whom he was living had no conception of what was happening to them. The process was too slow to observe directly, even over the span of a life-time. They took their environment for granted, and even bragged about their modernity.

  So what? Could one man change the course of history to the extent of preventing this interregnum? One man had changed the course of history before. Maybe. A Carlylean would say yes. A Tolstoyan or Marxist would say no; the environment fixes the pattern of a man’s accomplishments and throws up the man to fit that pattern. Tancredi had expressed it differently by calling history a tough web, which would take a huge effort to distort.

  How would one man go about it? Invention was the mainspring of technological development. But even in his own time, the lot of the professional inventor had been hard, without the handicap of a powerful and suspicious ecclesiasticism. And how much could he accomplish by simply “inventing,” even if he escaped the unwelcome attentions of the pious? The arts of distilling and metal rolling were launched, no doubt, and so were Arabic numerals. But there was so much to be done, and only one lifetime to do it in.